


almost two thousand years on a drunken sin

by TheGoodDoctor



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Extended Scene, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Pining, The Bandstand Scene, but it could be, not strictly speaking canon-accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 03:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19076740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoodDoctor/pseuds/TheGoodDoctor
Summary: They’ve had a thousand getting-togethers and falling-aparts, the demon and he; but this one, on the bandstand, feels like the big one.And not just because a lot of things, these days, feel like The Big One. It’s the End Of All Things, after all, and that does tend to have an effect on All Things.





	almost two thousand years on a drunken sin

**Author's Note:**

> i would describe the bandstand scene in the show as 'gay' and 'sad'. this is an attempt to make it yet gayer, and yet sadder.

They’ve had a thousand getting-togethers and falling-aparts, the demon and he; but this one, on the bandstand, feels like the big one.

And not just because a lot of things, these days, feel like The Big One. It’s the End Of All Things, after all, and that does tend to have an effect on All Things.

Every time, it’s been entirely different and exactly the same: Aziraphale and Crowley meet, somewhere, somewhen; they get to talking, with all the usual exasperation at the other’s line of work and general way of being but also the bone-deep relief of finally finding someone who _really_ understands the myriad trials and tribulations of a celestial/infernal overlord and far too many centuries of existence; they drink, and get drunk, and pretend to conveniently forget their ability to sober up with just a little effort; and then.

Then Aziraphale is pressed up against the rented walls of the taverna, toga rucked up around his hips and unable to do more than whine. Then he’s pinning Crowley to a pile of furs, kissing him like he’s human and drowning and needs Crowley in order to breathe. Then they’re both scrabbling at each other’s clothes in a side corridor of the royal court, desperately attempting to be quiet as they fight through too many layers that could be simply miracled away - but then there would be no risk, no illicit implicit danger of discovery, no _humanity_ in it.

And then there is the stillness and silence, disrupted only by heaving chests and ragged breaths for air that they oughtn’t really need, but one takes on a human, corporeal form and the shape remembers what it thinks it needs and does it anyway whether one likes it or not, really, and Aziraphale is spiralling inside his own head, thinking about bodies and breathing and beings _but not the one next to him because this didn’t just happen._

_Again._

And then they put themselves back together, not making eye contact, and try not to see each other for at least a decade or so. They don’t - cuddle, or anything - Aziraphale hears that humans do that, you know, _afterwards_ , and he thinks it sounds rather nice but obviously Crowley wouldn’t go in for that sort of thing because he’s a _demon_ and this really _shouldn’t be happening_ , and Aziraphale always remembers things like that afterwards with a stab of regret and something that feels horribly close to pain. He tries not to think about that last bit.

But this falling-apart, on the bandstand, isn’t like those ones. For a start, the build-up has been rather more prolonged than usual; a week or so of easy companionship and lazy flirting on Crowley’s part - Aziraphale thinks it’s more reflex than anything at this point, to ruffle the angel’s wings by calling him what he is and pretending not to know the looks it gets them, even though _angel_ has been a term of endearment for centuries now. Perhaps he thinks something will come of it eventually, but Aziraphale is fairly sure that Crowley is, as default and without any effort, simply tempting.

As in, actively attempting _to tempt._ Not that he is, in and of himself, _tempting._ Verb form, not adjectival, thank you.

But this sort of build-up comes to nothing, more often than not. A few weeks or months or years of what might be called gently-flirtatious friendship is far more common than anything else between them, with not a fall-out so much as a drift-apart. They’ve argued, obviously; they’re very different peop- _beings_ and such things do happen. St James’ Park, back in ‘62, when Crowley had asked for that terribly dangerous flask and a surging wave of horrified preemptive loneliness had swept Aziraphale’s manners ruthlessly into the duckpond, for instance. They’d made something of a scene, he was later informed.

Even that hadn’t ended like this, though. That had ended in ‘41 with miraculous rescues and what _might_ , from anyone else in the entire universe, have been kindness; and then, years later, a perfectly ordinary conversation and what _might_ , from anyone else in the entire universe, have been cruelty. To hand Crowley that picnic thermos, filled with the only weapon that might actually hurt him - Aziraphale doesn’t know if that was good and holy or not. Suicide, of course, is a sin; to destroy God’s creation, however far fallen from the light. But a demon? Perhaps it weighs differently, in the end, to harm a demon. And, after all, nothing had yet come of it and quite possibly never would - in which case, Aziraphale had simply given a gift to someone who had asked for it, and is that not kindness? It had felt horrible.

And he had meant every word he had said to the demon, under the too-bright too-pink too-human fluorescents. In a circumspect way, it was the most honest he had been with Crowley potentially ever: no, you may not give me a lift because, like all the others hanging out on Soho street corners at this time of night to be picked up by dark cars and dark suits and dark sunglasses, I know where that will end up and I cannot keep doing this with you. Perhaps someday we will do this properly, how I want it done, in nature and sunshine or dignified surroundings on a leisurely afternoon, but until then-

Until then, you go too fast for me, Crowley. And you leave before I’ve caught up, panting and gasping for breath in the dust kicked up as you speed away, clutching at your trails because you aren’t the person I want you to be.

So this highly-strung meet-up-turned-disaster is new and big and feels, more than anything they’ve had before, like - well. The big one.

Aziraphale is cagey and defensive and Crowley is angry and powerless and if there ever was a bad beginning, this is it. Because Crowley asks Aziraphale if he knows anything that might help them both, and the rest of the world at that; a question whose answer Crowley has been promised; a question whose answer Aziraphale knows, and the angel looks him dead in the eye and _lies._

His voice is tremulous and his words a deliberate misunderstanding so that he doesn’t lie, not really, not technically, not in all the ways that count for nothing at all. Crowley makes an assumption and Aziraphale lets him believe it, because they cannot work together, the demon and he.

The worst of it is that Crowley believes him. Instantly, without thought or doubt or query. _It was just asking questions_ , Crowley had told him once, when humans were being their usual terrible selves and in response Aziraphale had gone in to bestow a little kindness from above and Crowley had attempted to drink himself into incorporeality. Just a little doubt, put into words and put to the Almighty and _down you go_ , he had said, head pillowed on one folded arm on the bar and the other hand walking his first two fingers down an imaginary flight of stairs.

Aziraphale had sighed, and instead of saying something about his deserving it asks the barman for something to drink. Religious wars are so _difficult_ ; any kind of divine interference on any side has the propensity to extend the conflict, rather than shorten it, and Aziraphale had found the whole thing rather exhausting.

Crowley had patted him on the shoulder, hand sliding down to where his wings would be. Aziraphale really ought not have found it so comforting. “Don’ worry, angel,” he had said, drunkenness sliding a hiss into words where no hiss should be. “You won’ fall. You’re too bloody _good_ , it’s jus’ awful. No fun at all.”

Aziraphale had allowed himself a tiny, self-satisfied smile and a proud squaring of his shoulders. There was a snort from Crowley, but no more - what’s a little preening between age-old friends? - and Aziraphale had been quite content to take his words as a compliment. He would almost go so far as to say that Crowley had meant them that way, too.

It’s rather terrible to know that Crowley has more faith in his duplicitous enemy than he ever did in his own Creator. But then, Aziraphale has never lied to him before.

He’s no longer quite so sure that the same can be said of the Almighty.

He can’t help but flinch slightly, hands tightening briefly into fists, when Crowley howls his anger and frustration about the Great Plan at the sky. But it _is_ the Great Plan, and his side _is_ right about this, they have to be, and Aziraphale needs Crowley to go away now because if he’s not careful he’ll tell him everything or be forced to lie more. So he finds, with ease born of perfect knowledge of the other, the exact pressure point that will infuriate Crowley yet further. Aziraphale knows the contours of Crowley’s mind, is familiar with his doubts, in the same way that, in the dark, his fingers know the contours of Crowley’s body, are familiar with the places that make him shudder and shake and fall apart. He knows _Crowley_ , and he uses the knowledge against him.

“May you be forgiven,” he says softly, perfectly enunciated to best push Crowley’s buttons.

Crowley turns upon him, snarling and spitting, and even after everything it’s an effort not to back away, beg his own forgiveness in turn. He _likes_ Crowley, damn them both - and it very likely will - and the man is still a demon. A force of darkness, with which to be reckoned, and which Aziraphale is presently poking with a pointed, but quite short, stick.

They argue about the boy, and his fate. Aziraphale chooses, because it’s easier, to believe that Crowley’s reticence about murder is an effort to tempt the angel into sin, rather than a genuine abhorrence of the act.

 _Not the children_ , the Crowley of several thousand years ago had said, even as the dark clouds assembled on the horizon and rain had begun to spit on their faces, Crowley’s screwed up in disbelief and Aziraphale’s pinched into awkward unhappiness.

Eventually Crowley runs out of steam, turning abruptly to furious, distant acceptance. “This is ridiculous. You are ridiculous,” he hisses, not quite reptilian but not quite _not_ , either. “I don’t even know why I’m still talking to you.”

Crowley turns away, leaving the little space he had crowded the angel into, and in relief at the breathing space, at what he had wanted all along, Aziraphale says, “Frankly, neither do I.”

“Enough. I’m leaving.”

And he does. Waving one hand in absent farewell, an affectation of carelessness that neither of them quite believe, he turns to leave the bandstand. And it is ridiculous to discuss it. Ridiculous even to talk to each other - in truth it always has been, for an angel and demon to fraternise, Aziraphale just couldn’t or wouldn’t admit it - but Crowley says he’s leaving and he is and suddenly Aziraphale can’t have that, for all that it’s quite pointless.

“You can’t leave,” he finds himself saying, and whether that’s a practical statement of fact or a poorly-concealed plea Aziraphale himself cannot say. “There isn’t anywhere to go.”

He’s right. He knows he is, and Crowley must know it too, but - “Big universe,” Crowley says. “We,” Crowley says. “Together,” Crowley says. Aziraphale, staggered in disbelief, can only clutch at glimpses of his meaning. Still, after everything, and with everything to come, Crowley thinks that however this goes they can and will still be together. Alone in the rubble with a pile of bodies, like the church in the Blitz, after crossings and double-crossings, rescues and counter-rescues, miracle upon miracle upon miracle.

For immortal beings, they try tremendously hard to stay alive.

“Go off together? Listen to yourself,” Aziraphale manages around a mouthful of surprise. He had never really supposed that Crowley would be this hard to leave; always assumed that the feeling, if any, was all on his own part, and that Crowley would forget him soon enough if they ever had cause to stop running into each other over the centuries. The little favours they do each other might be something to Aziraphale, but to Crowley, surely, these are just - transactions. The nights they spent together are, to Crowley, just _nights_ , which he could have just as well with any willing mortal.

Aziraphale isn’t sure what those nights are to him.

“How long have we been friends?” Crowley says, and he cannot know the train of the angel’s thoughts - indeed, Aziraphale would not have him know anything about it for- well, perhaps, in light of recent and forthcoming events perhaps not for the _world_ \- but the word _friends_ , when Aziraphale has been thinking about favours and feelings and fumbling in the dark, when Aziraphale might just possibly be coming to the conclusion that he _loves_ Crowley, when he wants to tell him everything anyway and damned be the consequences; _friends_ comes as something of a slap.

“Friends? We aren’t friends,” Aziraphale says, resisting the urge to turn away and bring his arms up in half-hearted, too-late protection of his heart. They cannot be friends, he sees that now. Even if they weren’t who and what they are, Crowley would only think of them as friends. And Aziraphale wants so much more. He burns with it. And he cannot ever have that with Crowley, so he sets to work pushing that which he loves away from him. Alpha Centauri is lovely, this time of year; perhaps the demon will go there, and survive the end of all things. “We are an angel and a demon. We have nothing whatsoever in common. I don’t even like you.” His voice turns petulant, forced into the unfamiliar shape of lies, and Crowley _will not go._

“You do,” he wheedles, almost all confident.

It’s the _almost_ that does for Aziraphale, of course. It always has been, from the very beginning, and it hurls him back through the years to Rome and the taverna they had returned to after a delicious and surprisingly enjoyable meal of oysters. And wine, of course. Too much wine.

Crowley invited himself up to Aziraphale’s rented room, still articulating a long and confusing point about oracles and temporal reality, and Aziraphale let him, more for the pleasure of hiccupping giggles at the demon’s expense than any real desire to understand. He sat down to take his sandals off and found himself with a lapful of Crowley.

“Hello, angel,” he hissed, and Aziraphale giggled. That was the first mistake; had he ejected the other from his thighs posthaste they might never have been here, but drunken Aziraphale thought that it was funny, and that the light catching on Crowley’s clever, serpentine eyes was ever so very pretty, and even sober Aziraphale would concede that Crowley was - adjectival form, now - _tempting._

Crowley bent his head, breathing in the space behind Aziraphale’s ear. “Ahah, no, that tickles,” he gasped, and Crowley’s lips, when they brushed the angel’s neck, were curved into a wicked smile.

“Come on, ‘Zira,” he said, shifting in Aziraphale’s lap in a way which gave his corporeal form - ideas. They were both far, far drunker than they had ever been in all their centuries of existence, and it is this that Aziraphale will, in centuries to come, blame. “Let’s have a little fun.”

“We mustn’t!” Aziraphale squeaked, hands curling in the hem of Crowley’s tunic without his say-so. “It would be - wrong, surely.”

“You don’t seem sure,” Crowley said, voice low and slippery and seductive like the beautiful iridescent rainbow of an oil slick. “Don’t you want to, angel?”

Aziraphale kissed him, then. The voice was still perfectly cool, all calm and collected temptation; the hands still confidently set to running gently from the base of his neck down the length of his collarbone and flat down his sternum and back; but in the words there was a tremor. Just this once, a little doubt: did the angel want him after all? Was he good enough? Was he cared for, by anyone, at all? And Aziraphale has cursed his own big heart for reading so much into that tiny tremble, for kissing the demon and accepting temptation, for doing it again and again and again.

And Crowley wheedles now, almost all confident, asking without asking if Aziraphale really, after six thousand years of talking and eating and helping and arguing and fucking and miracle upon miracle upon miracle, doesn’t even like him. And Aziraphale falls for it, hook, line and sinker, wondering all the way down if Crowley doesn’t know his buttons to press just as well as Aziraphale knows his.

“Even if I did know where the Antichrist was I wouldn’t tell you,” he blurts out, turning back. “We are on opposite sides.” His voice is still petulant, but he cannot figure out what part of that sentence feels like a lie. It oughtn’t be any of it.

“We’re on our side,” Crowley hisses, stalking forward. Even in man-shape he’s predatory, teeth bared against the perils of a universe that rather suddenly seems cold and uncaring, and Aziraphale has to look him in those concealed reptilian eyes and put a stop to all this.

“There is no _our side,_ Crowley! Not anymore,” he says, abruptly angry. Why can’t Crowley see? He’s trying to do what is right by all of them: to follow the Great Plan, as set out by their benevolent Creator, and do what is asked for the good of all people, and end this... _thing_ between them that should never have been. Aziraphale knows that Crowley doubts, that he is a demon, but why can he not just let Aziraphale _do the right thing_? “It’s over,” he says, louder and harsher than he should have liked but Crowley must understand that there can be no _our side_ when Aziraphale’s side is clearly right. There can be no grey. No _us._

There is a pause. Crowley opens his mouth to say something and for one stupid half second Aziraphale thinks he is about to fight back. For one brief snatch of time, not even a breath, Aziraphale truly believes that Crowley will say _no. Aziraphale, I will not let you go. I care too deeply for you, and this world, and everyone in it; together, we will stop this, because you and I know that it is deeply, morally wrong. Not for any higher power, but for the people, and for us. Because I love you, Aziraphale._

What Crowley actually says is “Right. Well then. Nyeh.” And then he turns, and he walks away. Just like Aziraphale had wanted, from the start.

He swallows hard, ducking his head and looking away. There’s a lump in his throat which he’s not felt before, and a feeling of deep, dark powerlessness to which he is also not accustomed.

“Have a nice doomsday,” Crowley says, almost cheerily, with a wave.

Aziraphale discovers that a lump in one’s throat would appear to herald the arrival of rather undignified weeping.


End file.
